


Tremble: Parts one, two, three, and four.

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-20
Updated: 2000-01-20
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An in progress story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archived on 01/20/00

## Tremble part one

by Rhipodon Society

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/soho/square/6381>

* * *

Tremble 

__  
when i wake up my reflection looks so pained. god, i know there's  
nothing gained if you don't get hurt a little, but i still tremble 

\--peter himmelman, tremble

  


That slamming sound was books hitting the floor. That scraping sound was books being shoved under Blair's futon. The clicking was the sound of cassette cases falling against each other. Mystery solved. 

Jim opened the door to the loft and stepped inside. "Chief?" 

"In here," Blair said, It wasn't a welcoming sound, but Jim wait to the door of Blair's room anyway. 

"I know where you are," he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. Blair had developed a strange habit of forgetting that Jim was a Sentinel, at least during his down time. 

"What are you doing?" 

As soon as it was out, Jim realized it was the wrong question. It was obvious what Blair was doing. He was taking books and cassettes and films out of a cardboard box and stashing them under his bed. What Jim really wanted to know was, why? Fortunately, Blair seemed to understand. 

"I don't think my research is safe in my office." 

Jim thought of Blair's tapes and where they'd travelled in the past, and although it was wasted because Blair's back was turned, he rolled his eyes. 

"You just figured that out?" 

That convinced Blair to turn around. 

"I don't normally leave people alone in my office. Just people I think I can trust." 

There was a hardness to his feature that had had rarely displayed before he ... well, before. "Once," he added, "I was wrong. But I'm not too likely to make that mistake again." 

He went back to pushing his books around. His shoulders were tense. They probably hurt. 

"But you don't think your research is safe in your office." 

"No." Blair shoved hair out his eyes and turned a little so that he could look at Jim over his shoulder. "Considering that I no longer have a lock on the door." 

Jim slipped into a crouch and took a book from the pile. He liked the feel of that weight in his hands. It was reasonable and uncomplicated. 

"Sandburg, I don't like this new thing where I have to drag information out of you. Back when you never shut up I thought it would be great, but it's not. It's more annoying." 

Blair threw another book under the bed. 

"Someone broke into my office last night. Kicked the door in. They broke the glass, too, but I think that just happened because they kicked the door." 

Jim frowned. There had been a time when hold been able to predict Sandburg's behaviour with occasional accuracy, but that time was gone. 

"Why didn't you call me?" 

Blair smiled a little. "You get demoted without my hearing about it? It was a break and enter. I called the main switchboard." 

Jim opened his mouth. What nearly come out was his first thought, that he simply expected Blair to turn to him for help. That he would've expected to hear from him even if he wasn't a cop, never mind a cop who didn't work in the appropriate department. The look on Blair's face kept him from speaking. More to the point, the absence of a look on Blair's face. No agitation, no curiousity ... no sign of life. It wasn't a face Jim was prepared to open up to. A moment's thought told him there was another lane open to him, and he took it. 

"You are keeping one hell of a secret for me and most of it is in that office. I think I have a right to know if someone goes through your papers." 

"They didn't," Blair said. He pulled last few folders from the box. "That was the first thing I checked. Nobody touched this stuff." 

He put the folders away and reached for the book in Jim's hands. Jim felt an inexplicable desire to hang on to it, as if letting go would ruin any hope of getting the whole story out of Blair. Stupid. He handed the book to Blair. 

"Was anything taken?" 

"Just one thing." Blair pushed the box to corner of his room. 

"Remember that drum I kept beside the filing cabinet?" 

To Jim's surprise, he did. He didn't usually pay much attention to Blair's souvenirs, but that one had caught his eye. "It had designs carved around the outside?" 

"Yeah. It was a gift from one of my old profs. He got it in Suriname." 

That went a long way to explaining Blair's mood. He didn't give or receive gifts casually. He had some cockeyed notion that a gift was always a sort of talisman. 

Jim phrased his next question with all the tact he could. "Outside of being a keepsake, was it valuable?" 

Blair leaned against the futon. For the first time since Jim had arrived at the loft, his eyes were friendly. 

"I don't know. It's not easy to get one of those drums, but I don't know if that makes it valuable. It's not well-made. That tribe isn't especially artistic, unless you consider thinking up new ways to torture and murder people creative work." He smiled. "I'm not supposed to judge other cultures, and if you ever tell anyone at Rainier that I said this I'll deny it, but this may be the most disgusting culture anyone has ever come up with. Those people are assholes." 

Jim returned the smile. 

"Has it it ever occured to you that your classes would be more popular if you just said what was on your mind?" 

"There's a waiting list to get into my classes," Blair informed him. "Although that may be because they've heard that I'm away a lot." His eyes were still bright, telling Jim that he hadn't really taken offense. "The prof who gave me that drum received it as a gift from the tribe, and I've gotta tell you, I can't imagine what you'd have to do to warrant a gift from tribe Whatever it was, he can't have been too happy about it, because he ditched the drum as soon as he got back to the States." 

"He was desperate to unload it and you said you wanted it. That's good thinking." 

Blair shrugged "It's just a drum. To him it was a gift from that tribe but to me it was a gift from my prof. Besides, it impresses the hell out of first years when you tell them about that tribe and then pull out the drum." 

Now, this was familiar territory in the Sandburg Zone 

"Of course, you don't tell them where you got the drum." 

Blair grinned. 

"It's hard to got respect in the classroom these days." 

Jim's back was starting to hurt. He sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. "You think one of your students took it." 

"Maybe." Blair" tilted his head back and shut his eyes. "But it's pretty weird to break into my office just for the drum. I mean, that's a lot of work to satisfy a whim. Might have been a fuck-you gesture, but then you'd think they'd make a mess of the place." 

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Finally Blair lifted his head and looked at Jim. "I guess it's reasonable to think that anyone who identified with that tribe strongiy enough to want to steal the drum would also be viol4nt enough to kick in a door to get it. At least they didn't touch anything important." 

Jim placed a hand on Blair's shoulder. "You were attached to that thing and someone walked off with it. That's important." 

Blair didn't respond. God, he seemed unhappy so much of the time these days. 

I'm going to come in tomorrow and have a look around," Jim said. In deference to Blair's mood, he added, "if that's okay with you." 

Blair's smile wasn't enthusiastic, but it reached his tired eyes. "Sure. Thanks, man."  
 __  
i have spent night with matches and knives ... leaning over  
ledges only two flights up. cutting my heart, burning my soul  
with nothing left to hold but blood and fire 

\--the indigo girls, blood and fire

  


The problem with Blair's office was that it was Grand Central Station. He'd said that he didn't leave people alone in his office anymore, and that might even have been true, but he still kept generous office hours and was ridiculously friendly with h1s students. It was surprising that Jim had been able to search the office undisturbed. 

He'd even been undisturbed by Blair, for the most part, although Blair had been at his desk a good portion of the time. Between grading papers and typing at his laptop, he barely seemed to notice that Jim was in the room. 

"All right," Jim sald finally, getting to his feet. "Based on what's been left in your office by visitors, I can narrow it down to about a hundred people," 

Blair glanced up from his computer. His glasses slid down his nose. 

"Yeah. I'm stuck there too. If you give me a list of names we can compare notes." 

Jim grinned. "I don't have names I'll know them when I smell them " 

Blair pushed his glasses back into place and tried to look solemn. It was a nice attempt, but something in his eyes gave him away. "So if you come to all of my classes and go up and down the aisles sniffing people, we should be able to narrow this down." 

"I don't think that's necessary. They're anthropology students. I should be able to smell them from here." 

Blair laughed with the delight he always showed when Jim managed to zing him. Lately he'd had almost no patience for teasing from anyone else, but he still loved it from Jim. 

"Okay," he said brightly. "Good. Get on that. I have to make some photocopies." 

Jim took the guest's chair in front of Blair's desk and set his feet beside an odd-looking paperweight that had probably been used by a tribal warrior to bash in someone's skull. Blair had always cheerfully refused to discuss that souvenier, and when Blair was reluctant to talk, Jim got suspicious. 

In fact, he happened to be considering a fine example of that phenomenon at the momomt. For the past few months, Blair had been abnormally quiet, ergo, Jim didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. Hell, not nearly as far, because he could throw Blair off the top of the Rainier University Arts Tower, and that would constitute a fair distance. Tallest building on campus, fifteen stories to the grounds. 

Maybe throwing him off a buildimg would got him to talk about why he was in such a rotton mood. Maybe he'd scream it out in the way down. 

Unfortunately, Jim didn't think he could do it, on account of he loved Blair so damned much. Of course, if he didn't love Blair so much, he probably wouldn't be frustrated enough to want to pitch him off the top of a building, but that was ... what did Blair call those things when your point didn't matter because it was never going to happen? Well, that was him coming down the hall, so it would be simple enough to ask. 

"Chief,"" Jim began as Blair entered the office and moved past him to the desk, "what do you call it when ... what are you doing?" 

""Paper," Blair said helpfully, moving term papers and academic journals with both hands. He stopped when he located a sheet of plain white paper, and shoved it into his pocket without bothering to fold it. Then he grabbed a pen from the mug at the corner of his desk and made a beeline for the door. 

Jim followed. He wanted to know what the hell Blair was up to, and it was a pretty good bet that the professor wasn't going to be offering a synopsis later. 

Blair's mad rush ended in, of all places. the washroom. Before the door had stopped swinging, he had laid his paper out on the windowsill and was copying a design from something below the sinks. Jim stopped closer and saw that whatever Blair was looking at was in the garbage can. 

"You know, Sandburg, this is strange even for-" 

As soon as he got a look at the item which had caught Blair's attention, the words stopped dead at the front of his mouth. On top of that pile of paper towels and crumpled study notes was a three inch square piece of gauze, stained with blood. Not a lot of blood. So little blood, in fact, that it was possible to make out the exact pattern of the cuts that had bled into that bandage. 

It was that pattern Blair was committing to paper, drawing a few lines, then checking back to make sure he was getting it right. Dammed if something about that design didn't look familiar. 

"Chief?" 

"I think I'm just paranoid," Blair told him. He finished his drawing and backed away from the garbage can. His eyes stayed focused on it until he had backed all the way out of the door. 

Jim listened to Blair's rapid heartbeat, made sure that Blair wasn't going anywhere but his office. Once he was satisfied that Sandburg wasn't about to get himself in trouble, Jim moved closer to the garbage can and examined the blood. 

It was still a little damp, which told Jim that the bandage had been removed that morning. The gauze and the sensitive skin tape which had held it in place were fairly clean on the outside, which said it hadn't spent a lot of time outside a medicine chest. If the fact that it was lying in a men's washroom wasn't evidence enough, the coarseness of the hair pulled out by the tape said that it had been on a man's arm. 

Jim wasn't about to touch it, but in case he needed to track this person down, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get a handle on the scent. He leaned in close and took a breath. 

What he smelled made him sick at heart, sorry he even come to the U that morning. That blood, the scent of it, was wrong. It smelled dark and crazy, worse than the smell of schizophrenia that Blair had taught him to recognize. 

He staggered back, choking, and covered his mouth and nose. 

*Dial it down. Dial it down.* 

He could do it himself, but it was easier when Blair talked him through it. He had to find Blair. 

Though Hargrove Hall was nearly as familiar to him now as the precinct, he didn't know which way to turn as he stumbled from the washroom to the hall. It was Blair's heartbeat that led him back to the office. 

"Jim?" 

Blair was on his way out of the office as Jim entered, coming to meet him. Jim placed his hands on Blair's shoulders and took a few deep breaths. 

"Jim? Are you okay?" 

Cinnamon. For some reason, Blair smelled of cinnamon today. Maybe he'd had it in a roll, or an oatmeal cookie. It was a good, warm smell. Jim ducked his head for a second to get closer to that scent, shut his eyes to steady himself. Much better. 

"Jim?" 

"It's okay, Chief. I'm okay." 

He pressed Blair's shoulders and released him. Blair kept still and watched as Jim made his way to the chair, then went around the desk and took his seat. 

"What happened?" 

"I ... I don't know. I smelled the blood so I could find whoever left that bandage, and it was ... it didn't smell right. 

Blair narrowed his eyes. 

"What do you mean? You mean it wasn't blood, wasn't human blood?" 

"No, it was ... it wasn't from an animal. It smelled like it came from someone crazy 

Blair sank back into his chair. 

"Like a schizophrenic?" 

"No. It was worse. I've never smelled anything like that before, It made me sick." 

All of a sudden it occurred to Jim that Blair looked terrible. Pale shaking hands, dark circles under his eyes ... he was a mass. Jim wasn't about to leave him there. 

"Maybe we should talk about this at home" Jim suggested. 

"I need my books," Blair said dully. He was looking at something just over Jim's shoulder. 

That did it. Jim was definitely not leaving him alone. 

"Bring them with you."  
 __  
i've been drowned out by the rain ... got to leave you  
once again ... and despite what I might say I measure  
pleasure by the pain. it might be very hard, can't be  
more than what we are, can't be more `til it's over. here comes  
the resurrection, everybody's got to die from something,  
never quite enough to leave you when you go 

-moist, resurrection

  


He didn't want to push. He didn't think he'd like the results of pushing Blair right now. But Blair had been going through books and making notes for over two hours, and Jim had to head to the station pretty soon. 

"Chief?" He tapped Blair's drawing of the pattern of blood. "What do you think this is?" 

Blair shut the book he'd been looking at and propelled himself backwards onto the couch. 

"It matches the designs that are carved into my drum." 

"Which -- oh. That drum." 

Blair raised his eyebrows. 

"Yeah. That drum." 

Jim sat am the edge of the yellow chair. 

"It's pretty obvious that's our thief." 

Blair grinned. 

"Y'think?" 

Jim didn't normally like people mimicking him, but it was sort of cute when Blair did it. He smiled. 

"I'm a trained detective." 

"So I've heard. You really think this guy is crazy?" 

Just the thought of it and he could small it again. Dark and rotten as the coffee ground blood people vomited when their stomachs were in shreds. 

"I think he's dangerous Chief. Maybe you should let this go." 

Blair looked amused. 

You've been telling me that a lot lately." 

Jim shrugged. 

"You've been ..." He stopped He didn't like using the term, but he couldn't think of any other way to put it. "Hell-bent." 

The sharp raw look in Blair's eyes was something new. Jim didn't like it much. 

"That's very funny," he said, and he seemed to mean it. Jim bit his tongue to keep from asking where the joke was. It was likely that Blair would tell him. God know, there was no middle ground with Blair between not enough information and far too much. 

"I have to go to the station," Jim said. "Are you coming?" 

Blair shook his head. He had grabbed one of the books from the coffee table and was regarding it without affection. 

"Nah. I'm looking for something." 

*Trouble,* Jim thought. *You'll find it, too*. 

But there was obviously no talking him out of it, so Jim took his own advice and let it go. At least at the station, he could be useful.  
 __  
i drank the blood of a witch ... chased the moon from the night,  
fighting with her `til sunrise. she said, "sometimes you know  
too much. i'm offering you such wonder as death in living and  
whispers in thunder. starting to shatter, i lied to her,  
said none of this matters in my world." she said, "you fool,you  
ask to see, and when you do you throw it away." 

\--thomas trio and the red albino, chasin' the dragon

  


There was supper an the table when Jim got home. And not some half-assed sandwich and beer deal, either ... Jim didn't recognize the food, but it was definitely a proper sit down meal. 

"What's this?" he asked. Blair looked up from the vegetables he was stir-frying and smiled. 

"Ethiopian food." 

Even after three and a half years, Jim didn't always know when Blair was joking. 

"I thought they didn't have food, Chief." 

"Heh. Stir this for a minute." 

Jim took the slotted spoon and did what he was told while Blair took a couple of beers out of the fridge. 

"It's a very old culture," he said. "And they used to be much better off. Anyway, I totally guarantee you will like this." 

As far as Jim was concerned, there was nothing not to like. The food was part of it -- one of those stew and little pancakes combinations that reminded him of Peking duck, and Blair's stir-fried vegetables to go with. Jim never objected to a good feed. But mainly he was pleased to see Blair exhibit energy and humour in contrast to his behaviour that morning. 

Sure, some people might call it a mood swing, but Jim was determined not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and also to let sleeping dogs lie, and any other appropriate aphorisms. 

The anthropology books had been put away, and with a stack of rental movies on top of the tv, Jim had every reason to expect a pleasant evening. Maybe Blair had taken the advice of his elders for once, and opted to let this go. 

Jim settled himself an the couch. Blair flopped down next to him, and Jim turned up his sense of touch until the warmth of Blair's body was as comforting as a fire.  
 __  
that time of year thou mayst In we behold when yellow  
leaves or none, or few do hang ... bare ruined choirs  
where late the sweet birds sang 

\--shakespeare, sonnet seventy-three

  


Blair had a perfectly good reason for not coming in to the station with Jim the next day, which was that he hadn't accomplished a whole lot at Rainier the day before. And really, he *always* had a perfectly good reason for not coming in to the station, since it wasn't actually his job ... but that didn't keep Simon from grumbling. 

"This isn't his real job, Simon." Jim said for about the millionth time. "If you want him to be more reliable, try offering him a paycheck." "You want to explain his credentials to the powers that be?" Simon inquired. 

Jim shrugged. 

"Kid's turned into a pretty good cop. Even if I didn't have this Sentinel thing, I'd want to work with him. Hell, the whole department likes working with him." 

Simon laid one hand over the top of his coffee cup and patted it a few times. 

"Look, Jim, I won't say he has no training. You did a hell of a job training him. But you can't put that on paper." 

"When Rainier pulled his teaching fellowship, you were going to try." 

Simon looked at his hand as if he was surprised to find it on top of his coffee mug. He moved it to the handle. 

"You getting the feeling that he wants to be here full time?" 

Jim met Simon's eyes. 

"Yeah. I think he does." 

"I think so, too." He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. It was such an ingrained reaction to the station's coffee that Jim suspected Simon would still make faces if the machine in the lunch room starting pumping out the best coffee in the world. "Let me think on it." 

Jim was astonished into silence. Simon smiled 

"Panther got your tongue?" 

Jim didn't consider the panther a joke. He shook his head. 

"Just surprised. You want me to tell Sandburg?" 

"Better not. I don't know what I'll be able to work out. Look, Jim, is the kid doing okay? Maybe I'm way off base here, but he seems a little ... moody." 

Jim grabbed a chair and sat in it. 

"No, you're not off base. I don't know what it is. He's always had moods, but it's been pretty bad since .." 

Thankfully, Simon was equipped to finish that sentence himself. He nodded. 

"You think maybe he needs to see somebody about that?" 

"Why?" Jim was confused. "If he wanted to talk about it, he would. I think he just wants to put it behind him." 

Simon regarded him silently for a good long time, so long that Jim started to fidget. 

"I hate to suggest this," Simon said finally, "but maybe I should have a talk with him. See if he's got a handle on things." 

That had to be the most ridiculous thing Jim had heard in weeks. 

"Sir, with all due respect, he's not going to tell you anything he wouldn't tell me." 

Simon shrugged. 

"Maybe not. But it won't do any harm for me to ask. You going to see him tonight?" 

What kind of a question was that? 

"Yeah. We live in the same neighbourhood. We usually run into each other somewhere around the living room." 

"Tell him I want to talk with him." 

Jim stood. 

"Yes, sir. For whatever it's worth, I'll tell him."  
  
i am a brother to dragons and a companion to owls. my  
skin is black upon me and my bones burned with heat.  
my harp is also turned to morning and my organ into the  
voice of them that weep. 

\--Job 89129-81

  


What Jim saw when he got home changed his attitude toward Simon's offer. Somebody had to find out what was wrong with Blair, and if Jim couldn't do it, he wished Simon all the luck in the world. 

Blair was on the couch, sunk so low into the cushions that a strand of hair trailing along the back was all Jim could see of him from the doorway. He was watching a movie, something gray and dark, and his heart was racing. 

Jim went to sit next to him, or at least next to the nest of blankets and pillows that surrounded him. In spite of his cocoon, Blair was shivering. 

"You feeling all right?" Jim asked, reaching to lay the back of his hand against Blair's forehead. He had a fever but it wasn't high enough to be serious. A slight case of the flu, maybe. 

Blair leaned into the touch. 

"You could take my temperature from across the room," he said softly. Jim brushed back a few loose curls. "Habit," he said, What're you watching?" 

"Jacob's Ladder." 

"Oh." Jim turned his attention to the screen. Tim something-or-other, that guy who married Susan Sarandon, he was peering into a medicine cabinet, When he shut it, something nearly human stuttered in the reflection for a moment before vanishing. Jim felt Blair tense, heard him take a sharp breath. All of his vital signs said that this movie was shaking him worse than the ugliest crime scene. 

"What's it about?" 

"Um ... I don't think anybody's sure. This guy might be going crazy because he was given some weird drug in Vietnam, or it might be a post-traumatic stress thing. Or the whole film might be a future he imagines while he's dying in Vietnam. I think he thinks that he should have died in Vietnam. Louis ...that's his chiropractor ... basically told him that angels and demons are coming to tear him from the Earth." 

"His chiropractor told him this." 

"Well, yeah. but sometimes when he goes to see Louis the guy's not there and people say he died years earlier, so Louis might be one of the angels." 

Now that Blair was teaching the movie to Jim, it didn't have any power over him. His heartrate was back to normal. Jim was starting to think that Blair's compulsive lecturing served a purpose for him, soothed his nerves. 

"No offense, Chief, but that sounds pretty damned... who's she?" 

"That's his ex-wife. But the's not your type, She's not evil." 

Smart-mouthed little shit. Jim cuffed him lightly, aiming for the part of his head that was above the blankets. 

"Shh. You're wrecking it." 

He didn't care for the movie, in particular didn't care to see recreations of that war, but Blair seemed happier with him there. Jim stayed next to him and monitored his heartbeat, asked a question whenever he seemed to be taking it hard. Occasionally he'd give Blair a gentle shove and complain about couch hogging, because he had a feeling Blair wanted the contact. Whatever was going on in Blair's head, it wasn't happening on Jim's watch. 

"Simon wants to see you tomorrow," Jim told him as the credits rolled. "Were you planning on coming in?" 

Blair aimed sleepy eyes at Jim and yawned. 

"I guess. What does he want?" 

"Just checking on your stress levels. I think he's concerned because you haven't been around a lot lately. He has to parent somebody when Darryl is with his mother. You have to admit, you're the most suitable target." 

"I don't admit that," Blair stood up, somehow managing to step out of the blankets without tripping and landing on the coffee table. "I'm really wiped, I'm going to lie down, see if I can got some sleep." 

It was early for that, not yet nine o'clock. Jim wanted to ask if Blair was having a lot of trouble sleeping, maybe ask if he'd eaten anything that day, but he didn't think he'd got straight answers. Instead, he picked up the remote and started looking for something to occupy him for the evening. He suspected it was going to be a long one.  
 __  
can you hear every sound i'm making? in the  
darkness, without breathing, nothing moving,  
... I feel peculiar. i don't know, i can't tell  
if i am myself. holy moses, i've been burned.  
&i can't remember when i was happy 

\--jann arden, holy moses

  


Sometimes Jim was blind in his dreams. And it never seemed strange. It was a comfort, with all of his other senses so alive, that he didn't have to worry about his eyes. 

The deafness, though, that bothered him. Even when he had his sight, he couldn't stand the silence. 

It was perfectly silent in the loft in this dream. He had a strange feeling that there would be sound if he opened a window or stepped out onto the balcony, but this loft was a vaccuum. 

Jim tested it by trying his voice. He called for Blair. He could feel his tongue and throat moving to form the words, could even feel air moving past his lips, but there was no sound. 

Blair would know how to fix this. He'd have an idea, anyhow, which was more than Jim had. He went downstairs and opened the door to Blair's room. 

Except it wasn't Blair's room. It was the spare room, empty, theway Jim had left it when he'd moved all of Blair's things into boxes and demanded some space. 

The shutters closed over Jim's eyes and sounds lept at him in thes udden darkness. A woman was crying in the kitchen, and he thought he knew her voice, but he couldn't be sure. He asked who was there and this time his voice worked just fine, but she didn't answer. 

Jim felt groggy, as though he'd just woken up and couldn't shake the dream that had held him. But that didn't make any sense, because he was in a dream right now, and you didn't have dreams in your dreams. You didn't sleep in your dreams. 

But in this dream, he'd just woken up from a dream ... and in *that* dream, Blair hadn't died. Which was why he was so confused to wake up to a silent loft. 

Oh, yeah, it was all starting to come together now. Blair had died at the fountain, and if he thought anything else, he was just dreaming.  
 __  
this is the noise that keeps me awake

\--garbage, push it

  


Jim was sitting up when he woke, breathing hard. He felt as though he'd had to run a marathon to escape that damned dream. After a few moments, he was calm enough to send his senses on a tour of the loft. The balcony doors were open a crack (trying to heat the neighbourhood, Sandburg?), the remains of dinner were still sitting on the kitchen counter (it's not like the garbage can is in a different zip code from the counter, Chief), and Blair was peacefully asleep in his room. 

He placed his face in his hands rubbed sleep from his eyes. Ye gods and little fishes, what a fucked-up dream. Illogical and surreal, but while he was in it, he'd swallowed it whole. Or it had swallowed him. 

Not wanting to fall into more dreams of that kind, he got up. Television, a beer, bowl of chips ... that would keep him occupied, put enough distance between himself and that dream world that he could risk sleeping again. 

He got settled quickly, but he couldn't stay that way. The sound of Blair's breathing distracted him, set him on edge. It was *loud*. Not that Blair was snoring. He wasn't. It was the regular deep breathing of sleep, but for some reason it was loud enough to drown out the television, and there was pressure on Jim's skin as the air pulsed around him. 

Maybe if he rolled Blair onto his side, or just spoke to him, it would kick him out of this sleep cycle and his breathing would change. Obviously it *had* to change, because otherwise it was going to drive Jim crazy. He'd figure something out. 

Stepping into Blair's room only made it worse. The pulse of his breathing was joined by his heartbeat, which had a strangely empty tone that Jim didn't like. 

"Chief," he said softly. Blair turned his head away. Jim was surprised by how much that bothered him. He'd become accustomed to Blair turning toward the sound of his voice, even in sleep. 

"Look," he said, "it's late. I'm tired. Whatever you're doing, knock it off," 

He knew even as he said it that Blair probably wasn't *doing* anything, it least not consciously, but that was fine. He didn't mind addressing Blair's subconscious directly. Sometimes he got along with it better than he did with Blair. 

Between the thick waves of air and the warmth of Blair's room, Jim felt is though he was underwater. He remembered the neighbourhood swimming pool where he'd grown up, the way he'd sat at the bottom and listened as every footstep on the concrete floor gave off the flat and hollow ring of a timpani. 

*come on in ... the water's fine* 

Oh God, was that what this was about? That ugly dream, the horrible pulsing, the heat that was a weight on his skin, and Blair's secretive, black mood ... all because the wolf wanted a word with the panther? 

Jim stopped closer and ran his fingers over Blair's soft curls, resisting the urge to touch his face. 

"I'm still not ready," he whispered. Blair turned his head to listen, and Jim's hands shook with the effort it took to keep them still, "See, Chief, you talk a good game, but I know you pretty well, and I don't think *you're* ready." 

He turned to go, then impulsively turned back to the bed and pressed Blair's hand. 

"I'm waiting." 

* * *

End Tremble part one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archived on 01/20/00

## Tremble part two

by Rhipodon Society

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/soho/square/6381>

* * *

  
  
_the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things..._

 _\--lewis carroll, the walrus and the carpenter_

  


Eavesdropping wasn't a hobby for Jim. It never had been. His father had told him once that eavesdroppers tended not to like the things they heard, and he had found that to be true. Hell, an overheard conversation hid been the beginning of the end with his ex-wife. 

Still, there were times he couldn't resist his curiousity ... and this was one of them. 

He had parked himself in the Forensics Lounge, quiet place where he wasn't likely to be bothered. It wasn't as if there was a line up to use a lounge next door to the morgue. 

It was easy to tune in to Simon's office, cutting through all the other floors to hear Simon and Blair voices as distinctly is if they were standing next door. There was a slight tinniness, a little distortion, but the words were perfectly clear. 

Normally it took at least a little effort to listen from so far away, but this was Simon and Blair, and their voices drew him even when he didn't want to hear them. He shut his eyes and let them in. 

"Jim said you wanted to see me?" 

"Yeah." Simon was talking around a cigar. Jim heard the snick of a lighter as he flouted the department's non-smoking regulations once again. "Pull up a chair." 

The door to Simon's office shut and a chair moved toward the desk. (Lift chairs to move them, Chief. You're scraping up the floor.) 

"What's up?" 

"Your partner around here anywhere?" 

Blair's smile was obvious in his voice. 

"What's the difference, Simon? If he wanted to, he could hear this from the loft." 

"True," Simon conceded. "What I need is some Kryptonite." 

"All you have to do to ask, Blair told him. There was a soft thud as something about half the size of a breadbox was set on Simon's desk. 

"What the hell is tha--" 

White noise. Simon and Blair's voices disappeared behind it and Jim rained in his hearing before a headache came on. It had been a long time since he'd heard that white noise generator in action. Normally Blair didn't seem to care what Jim overheard ... but this was the all new, secretive Blair, and apparently there were things he didn't want Jim to know. 

"You saying you don't trust me, Chief?" Jim asked the wall of the lounge. He smiled, irrationally proud of the little bastard. "Good call." 

With nothing to hear and no business in the station, Jim decided to take a late lunch in the hopes that Simon and Blair's talk would be over by the time he got back.  
  
 _wanting you to reach up from the dark, to wake up from the cold._  
and wanted you is all i can do 

\--moist, believe me

  


No sign of Blair when he got back from lunch. Simon was there, scowling at a cigar that had been extinguished before its time. Jim took a deep breath and went into the office. 

"How..." he cleared his throat and tried to make himself relax "He was many years removed from the military but when he was nervous he still tended to stand at attention. "How did it go with Sandburg?" 

"Shut the door." Simon suggested, and Jim did. 

"That well?" Jim asked, trying for a smile. Simon rolled his eyes. 

"I was right about one thing -- he is definitely moody." 

Jim took a chair and waited. After a few moments of silence, Simon started to talk. 

"Jim, I realize that you may not want to talk with him about that close call we had a few months ago, but he has to talk to someone. That kid is a mess." 

"I'll talk to him," Jim said. Not that he wanted to, not that he was even convinced it was a good idea, but if Blair needed someone to talk to, that was what Jims were for. 

Simon shook his head. 

"I don't mean you, Jim. I know you have his best interests at heart, but you're too close to this. Did it ever occur to you that he might want to talk about what happened in Sierra Verde? Or about being thrown out of your place? 

"I wasn't trying to hurt him," Jim snapped. He'd been out of his mind at the time, and Simon damned well knew it. 

"I know, I know ... but that's one more reason he can't discuss this with you. He can't give you hell, and he knows it." 

"He can say anything he wants to say," Jim said softly. "He just .. doesn't." 

"Tell him to talk to someone. I suggested he talk with the department psychologist, but he won't do it." 

Jim raised his brows. if there was one thing Blair was conditioned to take in stride, it was visiting a shrink. After the run-in with Lash, after he'd nearly died from Golden, Blair had agreed to it without hesitation. 

"Said he was okay, didn't need it ... what?" 

Simon shook his head. 

"Now that's the part that bothered me. I told him I thought he was on shaky ground; he didn't argue. I told him I thought he should talk to someone, he said he probably should. I offered to set up an appointment he said no thanks. I don't know what he's thinking, but it's not good. Do you know if he's in trouble at the University?" 

Jim thought about that. It was a waste of time, since he'd thought about it plenty and he was always stopped by a complete lack of information but he thought about it anyway. 

"I don't know. He says everything's fine, but you don't believe him." 

That pretty much summed it up. 

"No. I don't." Jim was suddenly uncomfortable in the chair, felt it digging into his flash. "He's dragging around, I don't think he's working on his thesis; he never talks about school anymore ... I was in his office for about two hours last week and no one showed up. Something's wrong. Did he tell you about the break-in?" 

Simon did not look pleased. 

"Break-in?" 

Jim couldn't help smiling. For some reason it pleased him to know that Blair had this affect on other people, too. 

"I'll take that as a no. Someone kicked the door in and took a drum that Blair's old professor got from some bloodthirsty South American tribe. And if that's not strange enough, the next day Blair found a bandage in the washroom from some guy who'd cut a design off that drum into him arm." 

"This have anything to do with the Sentinel business?" 

Jim shook his head. 

"We don't think so. Blair says nothing but that drum was even touched. Just another weird story from the Sandburg Zone." 

"Weird doesn't even begin to cover it." Simon said. "Why didn't he call us to report the break-in?" 

"He did," Jim said, that "at least I'm not alone" smile coming to his lips again. "He called the appropriate department. Said as far as he knew, I hadn't been demoted. How do you like that?" 

"I don't." Simon clearly didn't find any of this remotely funny, and Jim was glad. Regardless of the occasional urge to smile, he didn't find it too damned funny either. "Why wasn't he in here, demanding that we find find this burglar and kick his ass? Why isn't he running all over campus trying to find the guy himself?" 

"I don't know, Jim said. "He's been reading a lot of books about that tribe, looking up the design ... but he hasn't done anything about it. I just ... don't know." 

"I don't know, either." Simon admitted "But I'll tell you something -- he is in no condition to be driving his life right now." 

"What do you want me to do?" Jim asked. "I don't think I'd be justified in taking the keys away, and he'd never forgive me for it." 

Simon waved a hand. 

"Yes he would. But I'm not telling you to do that. I'm not saying lock him in his room ... I'm just saying, keep an eye on him. And for god's sake, get him to talk to somebody. The boy has snakes in his head, and I'm worried about what he's going to do." 

Jim had nothing to say to that, so he said it. And left.  
  
 _all at once it will occur; you never will be what you were ..._  
you put a chill across my face like the air of december 

\--edie brickell air of december

  


Wherever Blair had gone after his talk with Simon, it wasn't the loft. There was no sign that he'd been there since that morning, and the answering machine was blinking quickly enough to cause sezures. Jim hit the play button and let it get everything off its chest while he settled in. 

"Hi. I was wondering if you might have a moment to complete a short consumer survey." 

Jim hit the skip button. 

"This is forty-nine cent video calling. Just letting you know you have four movies over-" 

Skip. 

"Hey, Blair, about that linguistics text you lent me. I've got some bad news. My roommate thought it was mine, so he put it in his suitcase when he left for this Now Zealand expedition, and ... uh ... he's on a plane right ... yeah, it's after one. He's in the air right now. If you're in a rush to get it back, I can have him mail it to you. I'm really sorry. Call me, 'kay?" 

Beep. 

"Jim, this is Al. You may remember me -- I'm the guy from Vice who kicked your sorry ass on the basketball court two games out of three. I have not forgotten about the twenty bucks, my friend. You can't avoid me forever." 

Beep. 

"Blair, sweetie, pick up the phone." 

Jim stared at the machine. That was not a voice he heard very often. 

"Are you there?" Didn't sound like a casual social call, either. "All right ... fine. You call me when you get in, because I just got a call from Geoff Miller and he says you asked him some very upsetting questions." 

Beep. 

"You don't have my phone number, do you? I'm in Dublin for the next few days -- I don't remember the country code, but the local number is 781-908. Call me. Please? Okay? Bye." 

Jim instructed the machine to save the rest of the messages and got out a phone book to find Ireland's country code. It seemed he and Naomi needed to have a talk.  
  
 _come to life, and i never thought you'd make it back so_  
soon. you've always been your own destroyer. as you let  
go my hand i was desperate to hold you again but you're  
sinking too deep in {the (water) will} freeze here, winter  
by morning, and we'll freeze here, solid by morning 

\--david usher, st. lawrence river

  


"Hello?" 

"Naomi... it's Jim." 

Before he could continue, he heard her take in a sharp breath. 

"Is he all right?" 

"Yeah, he's ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ... I was just playing back the messages and ..." 

"He's not home right now, is he?" 

Jim knew that tone. Even if he'd never met Naomi he'd know it. It was the one Blair used when his patience had finally snapped and he wanted answers yesterday. 

"No. I think he's at the University, but I'm not sure. You said something about a phone call he made to Geoff..." 

"Geoffrey Millar. I lived with him for a few months when Blair was ... eleven or twelve. I don't think Blair's spoken with him in years." 

Jim flopped down on the couch. He had a feeling this was going to take awhile. 

"Why would Blair call him now?" 

"That's what I'd like to know," 

Patience, Jim told himself. I am letting this go. 

"You said Blair asked him some upsetting questions?" 

"Yes. Geoffrey's a thanatologist." 

"A thana-whatsis?" 

"Thanatologist. An expert on death and dying. Jim, why would Blair call him? Is something wrong?" 

This was dangerous ground. Jim didn't know when Blair had last spoken to Naomi and he had no idea how much Blair wanted her to know about the events of the past few months. 

"I don't think so," he said slowly "Someone stole one of his souvenir drums, and he's been looking into the tribe the drum came from. I think he's trying to get into the head of the guy who took it. Maybe his phone call had something to do with that." 

"Jim." She wasn't even trying to hide her exasperation. "Did you *mean* what you said?" 

"I--" He stopped. "His drum did got stolen but ... I don't think that's what's bothering him. What did he ask this guy?" 

"He asked what happened if you missed your time to die. He wanted to know if something would come after you to take you away. I don't know why he would ask those things, Jim. Do you?" 

Angels and demons coming to tear him from the Earth. 

"Look, Naomi ... he isn't in any danger right now. I can tell you that. But I don't think he's talked with you in awhile, has he?" 

"I've been away from phones. I guess the last time we talked was ... about eight months ago. Why? What happened?" 

"I don't think it's my place to tell you." 

"Damn it," she said crisply, "Jim, you can *not* do that. You can't say something like that and not tell me. What happened?" 

It occured to Jim that he didn't care all that much what Blair had or hadn't told Naomi. It wasn't as if she and Jim were strangers. He could tell his friend anything he liked. 

"He had a close call a few months back." He paused, then bit the bullet. "I wasn't really myself, and I let him get hurt." 

She sighed. 

"Jim, as his mother, I'm well-qualified to tell you this: you can't keep him from getting hurt. He's always gotten into trouble. Is he all right?" 

"Yeah, he's ...well, physically he's fine, but he's been ... I don't think he's very happy." 

There were a few seconds where she didn't speak. Jim listened as a continent and an ocean hummed along the phone line. 

"How close was it?" she said finally. "This close call?" 

"He died," Jim said. The words startled him, sounded unnaturally loud. He'd never admitted it before. "I went after him and I brought him back." 

Because she was Naomi, she didn't ask how that was possible. She didn't even sound suprised. 

"He doesn't think he should be here," she said. "That's why he phoned Geoff. We have got to convince him that he wasn't supposed to die. I'm going to come out there. Can you find him and talk to him?" 

"Look, Naomi, you don't have to come out here. I'll deal with Blair. I didn't haul him back to the land of the living for this." 

"I'll be there in thirty-six ... no, there's a layover in Minneapolis. Closer to forty-eight hours. You give Blair my love."  
  
 _are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving? leaves, like things of_  
man, you with your fresh thoughts care for, can you? as the heart  
grows older, it will come to such sights colder by and by, nor spare  
a sigh though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; and yet you will weep  
and know why. 

\--gerald manley hopkins, spring and fall

  


What Jim mainly thought on his way to the university was that he now had forty-eight hours to put things right with Blair. He liked Naomi, but he would be damned if he was going to allow her to show up and magically fix everything. 

First Simon, insisting that Blair might tell him things he wouldn't tell Jim, and now this. Blair was his *partner*. Jim had brought him back from the dead, and that had to count for something. If anyone was going to get through to Blair, it should be him. 

When he opened the front door to Hargrove Hall, he nearly choked on the smell. It was that same dark smell he'd picked up from the bandage, but it was everywhere. It came at him from every direction. 

He turned the dial until he could stand to breath the air, then headed for Blair's office. 

"Chief?" 

No answer. Blair wasn't around ... but he *had* been. His backpack was lying beside his desk, and the door was open. The door Blair had sworn he always locked. There was a new lock on the door, had been since the day after the break-in, so there was no reason for the door to be open and Blair's backpack just lying on the floor like that couldn't mean anything good and Jim was hating this. 

Something was wrong. 

A few sheets of paper were lying en Blair's desk, covered with closely written lines. Jim scanned them and saw that Blair had put together a short essay on the tribe who'd made his drum. Black magic, ritual sacrifice .. as Jim read, his stomach turned. How Blair could spend months with these sorts of tribes, then return home and complain that Cascade was violent ... it was plain crazy. Probably Blair didn't notice the tribal violence because it was all academic to him. 

Even when he was living with them and sharing meals with them, Blair had a bad habit of forgetting that the subjects he studied were more than words on a page. 

But Jim wasn't going to think about *that* right now, because Blair was in trouble and being riled at him wasn't going to help. 

He told his mind to concentrate on why Blair had taken time to write an essay when he should have been looking for his drum. It didn't make a lot of sense for Blair to be taking such an indepth look at the drum's origins considering that all he needed was the name of the nutcase who'd stolen it. 

Jim suspected he had his reasons for tackling the investigation from such an unlikely angle. They might be psychotic, "I missed my proper time to die and here comes my punishment-type reasons, but Jim was betting that Blair's cop instincts had nonetheless put him an the right track. He folded up the essay and put it in his jacket pocket. 

From the pervasiveness of that very bad smell, Jim had no trouble believing that the person who stole Blair's drum was in or around the building. Obviously it was time to have a talk with him, so Jim set about tracking him down.  
  
 _i'm stepping on the devil's tail across the stripes of a full moon's head_

 _\--tom waits, jockey full of bourbon_

  


It wasn't just one person he found. Standing in a basement hallway of Hargrove Hall, outside a classroom that should have been empty, he could hear eight heartbeats. None of them were Blair's. He filtered out that terrible blood smell and searched for Blair's scent in case he ... in case something had happened. But Blair wasn't in the room, and good enough. That meant Jim didn't have to be too careful about entering. 

He took out his gun before pushing the door open, standing cautiously to one side. He was quiet about it, but even so, by the time he could see inside, everyone's eyes had turned to him. 

They were sitting at a long table in the centre of the room. Students, by the looks of it. Exclusively male. The only one who didn't look like a student was the one at the head of the table,and that one Jim was pretty sure he'd seen before. A professor or T.A. or something, in Blair's department. He looked fairly young, but not young enough to be a student himself. Not an undergrad, anyway. 

Jim hadn't opened the door with a plan in mind. He'd vaguely hoped to catch them in the middle of some nefarious act, so that he could arrest them and go from there. He didn't know what to do with eight people quiety gathered 'round a table minding their own business. He was pretty sure you couldn't arrest people for giving off the scent of insanity and death. 

And, oh, god, they did. It wasn't just the smell, either. It was a sickly glow in their eyes, the way their hunched shoulders seemed to arch into the tops of leathery wings. Jim was willing to concede that his imagination might be running away with him, but he only wished he could believe that. 

As he struggled for something to say, he noticed their arms, the fresh cuts describing the design from Blair's drum. That fucking drum. It had to be around somewhere. 

It didn't take long to spot it. Even without Sentinel senses, it wouldn't have been hard to spot. Jim took a breath and addressed the room in general. 

"You're under arrest," he told them, "for possession of stolen property." 

* * *

End Tremble part two.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archived on 01/20/00

## Tremble part three

by [Rhipodon Society](mailto:rhipodon@home.com)  


Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/soho/square/6381>

* * *

  
_it was a pleasure to burn_

 _\--ray bradbury, farenheit 541_

  


"Jim, could I have a moment of your time?" 

Jim stopped, his hand brushing the door to the interrogation room. 

"Can it wait? I was just about to--" 

"I can see what you were just about to," Simon snapped. "I wanted to ask you a few questions before you did something that reflected poorly on this department. I heard you arrested that man..." he gestured at the professor, who was sitting very quietly at the interrogation room table, "and seven of his students for possession of stolen property because they happened to be in the same room as a stolen drum." 

"Yes, sir, that's about right. I realize this may seem spurious ..." 

"Spurious. That's great. Sandburg teach you that word?" 

"Look, Simon, all I need is a couple of minutes with this clown. Then you can drop all the charges and let them go. " 

"Uh huh. Would you mind telling me why you're carrying that thing?" 

The thing in question was Blair's drum, which Jim had tucked under his arm. 

"I may need it to illustrate a point." 

Simon blinked a few times. Jim had an odd feeling that he knew what was going through Simon's head. His expression resembled the one Blair tended to wear while silently chanting to control his temper. 

"That's Sandburg's drum?" 

"Yup." 

"Do you--" 

"Just let me do this," Jim said. "All right? Five minutes, maybe ten, then it's not your problem anymore. 

"Where *is* Sandburg?" 

Jim put his hand back onto the doorknob. "I don't know. That's why I need a few minutes with this guy." 

Simon didn't look happy about it, but he moved to the one way glass and gestured for Jim to continue. 

The professor looked up when Jim entered the room ... or at least, he looked up to the point where his eyes found the drum. They never made it to Jim's face. Jim smiled and pulled up a chair. 

"I'm not going to waste your time," he said amiably. "I could ask you where you got the drum, but the truth is, I don't really care. What interests me is what you planned to do with it." 

The professor raised an eyebrow. 

"Detective, I don't understand you. One of my students brought that drum to class, and I had no reason to think--" 

"Of course you did. Everyone knew that drum was stolen from Professor Sandburg's office. But that's not what we're going to talk about. I want you to tell me where he is and what you and your students are planning to do." 

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't think I should talk to you without a lawyer." 

"That's fine," Jim said. "Don't talk. Listen." He set the drum on the table. "This isn't your lucky day. Ninety-nine out of a hundred cops wouldn't think anything of your little study group or this drum, but I happen to know something about South American tribes. I know that this drum is used in rituals involving human sacrifice and black magic." 

The professor laughed. 

"Is that what you think we were going to do with it? No anthropologist believes in the efficacy of those rituals. They're expressions of a pre-scientific society's desire to understand and control their environments." 

"I bet I could find you a couple of anthropologists who believe in the rituals. And," he added with an unfriendly smile, "one cop." 

He leaned forward. 

"So let's cut the crap. I want you to tell me where Professor Sandburg is, and you want this drum. Let's work something out." 

"You're crazy," the professor informed him. Jim shrugged. 

"Could be." He took a small bottle of lighter fluid and a pack of matches from his pocket and set them on the table beside the drum. 

"So, if the drum isn't of any use to you, can I assume you won't mind if I use it for kindling?" 

Whatever colour the professor had displayed drained from his face. 

"Don't." 

"You don't want me to set the drum on fire?" 

The professor swallowed hard. "It's valuable. A rare artifact." 

Jim opened the bottle of lighter fluid. 

"That's not how Professor Sandburg tells it. He says it's not much more than a curiosity. And I have a feeling he couldn't care less what happens to it now." 

"That drum is university property." 

Jim tilted the bottle. 

"You're reaching," he said as he poured. "I happen to know that Blair received it as a private gift. And speaking of Blair, where is he?" 

The professor had staying power. He managed to keep still and silent while over half the bottle was poured over Blair's drum. When he finally gave, Jim was surprised enough by the sound of the man's voice that he nearly spilled lighter fluid on the table. 

"Okay. You win. Put that bottle away." 

Jim closed it and carefully set it on the floor beside his chair. 

"Where is he?" 

"I'm not admitting anything, but if I were looking for him, I'd try 1524 Millar Crescent." 

Jim pushed back his chair and stood. 

"All right, I'll go check that out." 

He picked up the drum and left the interrogation room. Once the door was shut behind him. Simon turned from the window. 

"You want me to hold him until I hear from you?" 

Jim nodded. "I'll call you when I get to the house."   
  
_the sound of the wind through my bones makes me laugh at all the bodies I kissed and never knew. the sound of the wind through my heart makes me glad for all the ones that never knew my name_

 _\--jann arden, the sound of_

  


That Blair was in that small bungalow, alive and in reasonably good heath, was settled before Jim even turned into the driveway. Finding Blair's heartbeat was ridiculously easy, and his scent wasn't much more difficult. 

By the time Jim was standing on the front stop of that house with his gun drawn, he also know that Blair's was the only human heartbeat on the premises. He knew that blood had been spilled, a fair amount of it, but that none of was Blair's. And he know that everything of interest to him had happened in the basement. 

"Chief?" he called. "Can you hear me?" 

A few seconds passed, then Blair answered him. He didn't bother to raise his voice. "I'm downstairs." 

As far as Jim was concerned that took care of any ethical problems with kicking in the front door, so he proceeded to do so. 

His attention was devoted to finding the stairs, but he saw enough of the furnishings to be certain that this was the professor's house. Decorated by an anthropologist, with masks and spears and expedition photos covering every available surface. Anthropology, the study of the nature and history of clutter. 

The stairs to the basement were just off the kitchen and the blood Jim had smelled was at the bottom. Much stronger than the smell of the blood was the smell of that tribe, the one that was given off by their scars. He was definitely going to have to remember this the next time he felt guilty for exposing Blair to the dangers of being a cop. 

At some point this area had been a laundry room. It might still be one, since a washer and dryer were visible at the far end, but it was clear from the decor that it had acquired another purpose. 

Jim didn't know what all of the symbols meant, wasn't sure about the place a firepit held in their rituals, didn't know the use or composition of that black powder ... but the blood was hard to miss; he know an alter when he saw one, and he was unfortunate enough to recognize the sight of an evicted human heart. 

"Told you they were assholes." 

Blair's voice was very soft, but that was the worst thing about it. Way too calm for a man who was trapped in this room. Jim nearly jumped out of him skin. 

"Jesus, Chief," he said, turning to find Blair sitting beside a support beam. His hands were tied behind it. 

"Sorry. Thought you would've heard me by now," Blair said. And by the way, Jim, someone got their heart cut out down here. But I don't really care. How's by you? 

"Give a guy a heart attack." Jim muttered. He knelt in front of Blair and met his eyes. "Did you see what happened here?" 

Blair opened his mouth. Apparently it occurred to him that he was drawing flies, because he shut it and shook his head. 

"I don't know what I saw." 

The look on his face told Jim not to push. Instead, Jim busied himself with freeing Blair's hands and getting them the hell out of there. Blair didn't seem to be hurt, but he was lost in some thoughts that weren't making him happy. Jim had to guide him from the house with a hand at the small of his back. 

Once they were in the truck, he made good on his promise to call Simon. Yes, Blair was at the house, and yes, he was okay. That said, all was not well. Did Jim recommend sitting on that professor and sending a forensics team to look things over? He certainly did. 

"That crazy son of a bitch actually seems to think he can tell us to look for you at his house and still pretend he has no idea what went on here," Jim said as he turned off the cel phone. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you again. What do you think you saw?" 

Blair had lain him head back and he didn't bother to lift it before turning to look at Jim. It mode him look as though him neck were broken, and Jim quickly looked away. 

"I'm not a good source of information right now," Blair said softly. "I'm having visions. I'm being followed by the tribe that made my drum." 

That was crazy enough to draw Jim's eyes back to Blair's face. 

"Chief ... if you're talking about these guys who cut scars into their arms, I saw them too. I arrested eight of them this afternoon." He didn't smile, he didn't sit up, he didn't ask what Jim had arrested them for. All he said was, 

"Jim ... it doesn't mean anything that you saw them. We've had the same vision before." 

Jim wasn't going to talk about that. 

"Naomi called," he said instead. "Said you made a disturbing phone call to some ex-boyfried of hers. Asked a bunch of questions about missing your time to die. What the hell was the point of that, Chief?" 

"That's great," Blair said, shutting his eyes. "I was stupid enough to think that was a private conversation. I can't believe he called her. I can't believe she called you." 

"She didn't call me. She left a message for you on the machine, and I returned it." 

Blair snorted. "She knew you'd hear the message. That's why she left it." 

A little annoyed, a little frustrated, but perfectly sociable and sane. How could he sound like that? 

"What were you thinking when you made that phone call?" 

Blair didn't answer. With his eyes shut and his breathing slow, it was hard to tell if he was even awake. Jim nudged him. 

"I asked you a question." 

"I know. But if you can't see it ..." 

Jim felt the familiar urge to shake him partner. He put his hands on the steering wheel and gripped it hard enough to turn his knuckles white. 

"What is it you think I can't see, Blair? Explain it to me like I'm stupid. I know you can do that." 

"I think you mean, explain it to you as if you were stupid." 

Jim looked at Blair and was astonished to see something resembling a smile. It seemed Blair had made a joke. 

"Since I got back," he said with an abrupt change of gears, "I can't get interested in anything. I don't want to date. I can't concentrate on my thesis. I like doing police work, but I'm not a cop. I just think maybe I've outstayed my welcome here, you know. Like it all went bad because I should never have come back." 

Jim stared at him. 

"It hasn't all gone bad. The only thing that's different is you. It's just a mood you're in, Blair." He shrugged and said what he hoped was true. "It'll pass." 

Blair turned his head away and looked at the house. 

"There was a guy in the basement when they brought there. I guess he missed his time, too. They sent him on." 

Jim's stomach rolled. 

"Did you uh... did you see that happen?" 

Still looking at the house, Blair nodded. 

"They cut out his heart." 

He spoke with the dull tone of shock. Jim wanted to put him arm around Blair and hold onto him for awhile, but settled for running a hand down his hair. "When everybody else gets here we can go back to the station and I'll get your statement. Then we can go home." 

"Home," Blair said softly. "Yeah. I'm tired." 

* * *

End Tremble part three.


	4. Chapter 4

## Tremble part four

by [Rhipodon Society](mailto:rhipodon@home.com)  


Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/soho/square/6381>

* * *

  
  
_i'd walk the water to get back to you and where i was_   
complete. in this place here, it takes me on tonight 

\--moist, leave it alone

  


"Survivor syndrome." 

Jim looked at Simon. They were sitting in Simon's office, pretending to wrap up the case while Blair sat at Jim's desk and waited to go home. 

"That doesn't make sense," he said. "It's not like people were dying all around him and he lived. He was the only one who was..." He stopped. Simon was sipping coffee and watching Blair through the blinds an his office window. 

"Considering how often he's seen people die over the past few years," Simon commented, "it seems natural for him to wonder why he survived." 

That was a fair point, even if Jim did hate it. Why did there have to be a reason? Blair had been damned lucky, and that was a vary good thing. End of story. 

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to wish his headache away. 

"Whatever he saw at that house can't have helped." 

"He won't even be much use as a witness." Simon added, "given his state of mind at the time of the crime. I can't believe we had someone from Major Crimes right there watching the whole thing go down and we can't put him on the stand." 

"Can't win for trying," Jim said. He know he should be concerned with the outcome of the case, but he had other things on his mind. 

Simon looked him in the eye. "Go home." 

"Yeah," Jim said. "I should." 

He didn't stand up. 

"I don't see you going," Simon pointed out. 

Jim shrugged. 

"I'll have to talk with him, and I don't see how. What am I supposed to do with this?" 

"Drag him to a shrink. They're trained to deal with crazy people." 

"Yeah. All I have to do is get through tonight." 

Simon raised his coffee fee cup in salute, and Jim made it to his feet. No point putting it off any longer.   
  
_of course no man has complete trust in another. he merely thinks_   
he has because he needs to and hopes to 

\--nero wolfe, a family affair

  


"When I talked to Naomi, she said she was coming for a visit. She wasn't real clear about when she expected to got here. Maybe she's crossing a date line or something. I don't know. She said around forty-eight hours." 

That was the first thing Jim had offered up for conversation since they'd left the station. Blair hid his face in his hands. 

"I don't need that." 

"You shouldn't have called her ex." 

Jim didn't hear any dissent from Blair on that. He didn't hear anything at all. After a few minutes of silence, he tried another approach. 

"I found your drum. I'd give It back to you, but I set it on fire before I went to the professor's house." 

Blair lifted his face from his hands. "You *what*?" 

"Well..." Jim sat on the arm of the couch where Blair had deposited himself. "I told the professor I was going to burn it if he didn't tell me where you were. In order to convince him, I soaked the thing in lighter fluid. Then, after he told me, I realized it would probably be a good idea to burn it anyway. I mean, I don't know what he was doing with it. Not that I necessarily buy all that hocus pocus, but I've seen some pretty strange things, and I just ..." He shrugged. "It was soaked in lighter fluid, anyway. Thing was a fire hazard." 

It took Blair a few moments to realize that his jaw was hanging open. He placed a hand on his chin and pushed it back into place, then grinned. 

"Wow. And they called *me* mad at the academy." 

"You're still at the academy, and you *are* mad." He put a hand on Blair's shoulder. "I'm sorry if you still wanted it, but I had a feeling you didn't." 

"I didn't." So much for Blair's smile. "You probably did the right thing." 

Jim decided that he could handle sociable. He could handle sullen and distant. Under the circumstances, he might ever prefer it. It seemed a more reasonable reaction to the events of the day. But Blair wasn't one thing or the other ... his mood was turning an a dime, and Jim wasn't agile enough to keep up. 

He moved to sit on the coffee table. 

"Simon figures you should see a shrink. He thinks you have survivor syndrome." 

Blair's mouth twitched. 

"I can't believe Simon once lectured me on playing amateur psychologist. How the hell did he come up with that?" 

"You've seen a lot of people die and you're the only one who came back. He thinks you might not feel right about that." 

"Oh." Blair drew his logs up and put his arms around them. "I know it's not right.. When it's time to go, it just *is*, you know? You can't cheat. You pay for it if you cheat." 

For some reason, this insane conversation reminded Jim of something Mary Richards would say to her boss. "You can't come back from the dead, Mr. Grant. They'll get you for that." 

He shook his head to clear it, but it didn't help. Now he could hear hornets buzzing somewhere. 

"You know something? You're right. You can't cheat death. When it's your time to go, you go. So think about it. Darwin -- obviously it wasn't your time to go. If it had been, there's no way I could have brought you back. I'm not a fucking miracle worker." He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but he couldn't control it. He was practically yelling, with Blair right there in front of him. "Someday you're going to die on me, and before that happens you could finish your thesis and pack your begs, and I won't have any say in either of those things. Stop acting like someone should have called interference when I dragged your sorry ass back from the other side. I have never been able to interfere with your life." 

"That's a hell of a speech," Blair commented mildly. He was looking right through Jim, but Jim was pretty sure he'd been paying attention. 

"Didn't mean to yell," Jim told him. Blair waved a hand. "Forget it." 

Jim didn't exactly want to leave, and if Blair had anything to say he was curious to hear it, but sitting so near to Blair that their legs were almost touching suddenly seemed a little too close. He stood and went into the kitchen. 

Blair let Jim get about halfway through preparations for a dinner he didn't really want before offering a response. 

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "You're probably right. I never thought of it that way, but it makes sense. You were supposed to be there, and you were supposed to bring me back." 

"Good," Jim said. "Then that's settled. I tell Simon I solved everything and we don't need the shrink." 

He'd tried to sound friendly, but he didn't think he'd pulled it off. And he couldn't seem to stop banging pots around. Blair moved to stand across the island from him. 

"Even with that accounted for, something's not right." 

"Um." Jim said eloquently, Unable to think of an appropriate follow-up, he left it at that. Blair set his elbows on the island and leaned forward. 

"You really think I'm getting ready to bail, don't you?" 

Jim shrugged. He liked that even better than unintelligable grunting. He decided to make it his gesture of the week. 

"I'm not. I haven't been for a long time, and if you were paying attention, you'd know that. I repeat, I have been stalling an my dissertation." 

"You started working on it again," Jim said. forgetting that he was only supposed to shrug. "You started right after you told me that." 

"That doesn't mean I want to leave. And if you really care so much, here's a tip -- don't throw me out of the loft." 

It was sad, the way Jim's heart lifted at the prospect of a good old-fashioned fight with Sandburg. 

"You know damned well I wasn't myself at the time." 

"Is that supposed to reassure me? You have a propensity for becoming not yourself, and you don't compensate for it. I have to accept that, at any moment, you could slip your gears and toss me into the street again. You think you don't trust me to stick around ... buddy, let me tell you, I don't trust *you*." 

Blair had the slightly astonished expression of a man who'd said more than he'd meant to say, He probably thought he'd gone way over the line, but the truth was, Jim didn't mind. He felt almost inclined to laugh. 

"So, to sum this up," Jim said, "you don't trust me not to kick you out, and I don't trust you to stay." He shook his head. "That's funny." 

"It's not funny to me," Blair said but there was a spark in his eyes that made Jim suspect he was lying. It was at least a little funny to him. 

"You wouldn't happen to know how we fix this, would you, Chief? I mean, you're supposed to be some kind of spiritual adviser." 

Blair's eyes slipped their focus for a moment, and Jim suspected he was thinking about the very spiritual afternoon he'd had in the professor's laundry room. Probably considering the fact that tribal religion cut both ways, and wondering it really meant to be involved with one. Jim had spent more than a little time considering that topic himself. 

Blair shook his head and his eyes cleared. 

"I'm supposed to be a shaman," he said. "Although I keep telling you I don't know how to do that. And it doesn't *necessarily* mean I'm supposed to advise anybody. Not all shamans do that." 

God, it was annoying when Blair talked shit to him. Jim placed his hands on the island and got in his partner's face. 

"I can't get over this sudden reluctance to give me advice. I don't believe that you have no idea what we should do. That goes against the laws of nature in the Sandburg Zone. I'm not asking you to ... I'm not asking you to do anything morally questionable. I just want to know how you think we can get over this personal problem of ours." 

Blair looked as though he'd just bitten into something awful. 

"You won't like it," he said. 

Jim stared at him. 

"That's never stopped you before." 

"You said no before." 

Jim couldn't have said how it happened, but suddenly he knew exactly what Blair was talking about. He met Blair's eyes and placed a hand an Blair's arm. 

"Chief ... I didn't say no. I said I wasn't ready." 

Blair was looking at Jim's hand, holding himself perfectly still as though he were afraid of scaring it away. Jim raised his other hand and touched Blair's face. 

"Besides," he added gently, "even if I were ready, I wouldn't know what to do." 

Blair looked up. He seemed not much more than twelve years old. 

"You knew before." 

Which was true. Jim let Blair go and stopped around the island. 

"Lie down," he said, waving a hand at the couch. Blair obeyed him silently. He was trembling a little. Jim couldn't say anything about that, because his shaking hands weren't suited to throwing stones. 

Blair lay on his back and shut his eyes. Jim knelt beside the couch and looked at him. That he was lying still, that his eyes were closed ... these things were the same. Everything else was immeasurably different. Warm skin, his hair brushed out and shining, colour tracing his cheekbones. And that soft quiet breathing. The sound of his heart. 

*It's okay* Jim thought. He'd spoken to himself this way as a kid, whenever he'd heard coyotes howling or seen a snake under a log. *It's okay. Remember, he's just as scared of you.* 

He took a deep breath and and placed his hands on Blair's face.   
  
_stairways circle back to where you've been_

 _\--chagall guevera, escher's world_

  


He'd touched Blair a hundred times since that day, a thousand, but this time it wasn't a casual touch. And though Jim had claimed not to be a miracle worker, the miracle happened again. 

There was that same sense of motion, and then he was standing in that oddly bright jungle where the colours were sharp as broken glass. "Blair?" He said softly. 

"Over here," Blair answered. Jim turned, dizzy from the way the jungle flew past his eyes, and saw Blair looking down the path. He went to stand behind Blair and looked over his shoulder to see what Blair was watching. 

It was a living sketch, the moving and breathing outline of a panther and a wolf. They were drawn to flow into each other, but by some slight of hand it had become impossible to tell where the connections had been made. It wasn't even conceivable that they could be pulled apart. 

"It's an Escher," Blair whispered. "If he draw stuff like that. But I think the only animals he ever drew were lizards." 

"That's what happened when I brought you back," Jim told him. "Do you remember?" 

Blair nodded. With the sight of their spirit animals cozied up that way, it seemed ridiculous to keep his hands to himself, Jim slid his arms around Blair's waist. 

"I didn't realize what we did," Blair said. "Do you think that's bad?" 

Jim hugged him closer. 

"Wouldn't have happened if it wasn't supposed to. Answers my question about you leaving, anyway." 

Blair leaned back against him. "I told you I wasn't going to." 

"Yeah. You say a lot of things." 

Blair didn't have an answer for that. Jim buried his face in Blair's hair and took a deep breath. He'd been wanting to do that for years, but this was the first time it had ever seemed right. 

"I'm not usually a jackass about people leaving," he said. 

"I don't usually worry about the fact that somebody might kick me out," Blair answered. 

Jim shut him eyes. 

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a drumbeat, muted and thick as though it were coming through water. Blair shivered. 

"Jim? I think we should go." 

Jim opened his mouth to ask why, but before any words came out he got it. It wasn't a drumbeat. It was a heartbeat. 

"First Escher," Blair muttered, "now Poe." 

Jim didn't bother to ask what he meant. 

"I don't remember this afternoon," Blair said stubbornly. "I *don't*." 

"You don't want to," Jim said. The words were coming out before he could form thoughts. "If you turn around you'll see it. Your memory is standing right behind you." 

"I don't remember," Blair said again. "I want to go now." 

"Blair..." 

"Jim, I want to go home." 

Jim couldn't push it, couldn't demand that Blair turn around and face a memory he wasn't prepared to live with. 

"Okay. Okay. We'll go home." 

Jim felt a weird impulse to pick him up and carry him over the threshold. It wasn't as if he couldn't see what this place meant. He could see what they had done. 

He let Blair go and offered him a hand. 

"Come on," he said, casual as any man who'd been married for years. "I've got something on the stove."   
  
_don't worry -- the downpour of unhappiness is over. i can see_   
you crawling on your bloody knees and everything was really   
nothing after all. everything you thought would pull you down   
into the firey depths of hell ... they're shooting horses somewhere else right now 

\--jann arden, shooting horses

  


Very late that night, Blair turned to Jim with a sad smile. 

"I could testify if I remembered. Couldn't I?" 

"Maybe," Jim said. "But your initial statement was that you didn't remember, and it's hard to go back on that. Looks bad in court. People wonder if you manufactured the memory after the fact." 

Blair shook his head and went into his litany, the thing he recited when he realized he'd gone out without his brain. 

"I'm so *stupid*. Why am I so stupid? I could've stopped those guys, I should've done something. I just didn't think they were real." 

"The state you were in at the time was their good luck," Jim told him, "and someone else's bad luck. That doesn't make it your fault. Besides which, I wouldn't be surprised if those guys were messing with your head." 

"Oh, god ... it's not like I needed any help in that department." 

Jim caught his hand and pressed it. 

"It's a good thing a quick word from Dr. Ellison can solve all of your philosophical problems." 

Blair laughed. 

"You were right one time and *that's* the conclusion you leap to." 

Jim sighed. It would be nice to give up on the difficult things and just play, but there was one more thing to take care of. 

"You're going to remember eventually," he said. "You can't keep you back turned forever. I want you to talk to the department shrink." 

Blair looked a little hurt. 

"Why can't we just go back to that place together?" 

Jim brushed stray hairs from Blair's face. Seeing past that hair would be a challenge, something like looking at a 3D hidden picture all the time. 

"I think you're going to be more upset that I can deal with. You get upset, I get upset, you're useless, I'm useless ... I have to recommend a professional for this." 

Blair studied his face, looking for something. After a minute or so, he smiled. 

"Okay. I guess it's time I stopped fooling around with amateurs like you and Simon," 

"Sandburg," Jim suggested, "shut the hell up." 

And that was the last thing either of them said that night. 

* * *

End Tremble part four.


End file.
